


Se Cotidie Mori

by GubraithianFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ancient Rome, Crossdressing, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, Latin, M/M, Philosophy, Poetry, Shenanigans, Slave!Sherlock, Teenlock, but latin sounds nice, i may have exaggerated with latin words, orator!john, these two have lots of fun in rome solving some cases
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 00:42:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3270362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GubraithianFire/pseuds/GubraithianFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Quem mihi dabis qui aliquod pretium tempori ponat, qui diem aestimet, qui intellegat se cotidie mori?"</p><p> <i>What man can you show me who places any value on his time, who reckons the worth of each day, who understands that he is dying daily?</i></p><p>It's a Roman Empire AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, alright!  
> This idea wouldn't leave my mind. Seriously.  
> I first thought of a Roman AU last year, when we translated Catullus. As I read him I couldn't stop imagining Sherlock reciting his poems to John. Then this year we did Seneca and I fell in love with the _Epistulae 47_ and this... happened. Oh, well. 
> 
> _About the Latin_ : every Latin word I use is in italics and translated in the notes below. Every Latin word is also standing in Nominative.
> 
> IMPORTANT NOTE: I had initially started this fic by using their original names, but then I realized it was really anachronistic of me, so I changed them.
> 
>   * **Sherlock** remains Sherlock. I tried to come up with something else, but it sounds Celtic enough to me :)
>   * **John** becomes Dion. [Here](http://www.behindthename.com/name/dion) is the origin.
>   * **Harriet** becomes Herminia. [Here](http://www.behindthename.com/name/herminia) is the origin.
>   * **Molly** becomes Myron (short for Myrrine). [Here](http://www.behindthename.com/name/myrrine) is the origin. 
>   * **Mycroft** remains Mycroft, same reasoning as with Sherlock. 
> 

> 
> Unbeta'd, please point out any mistakes. I'm not a native speaker, so seriously, point them out, it's only good for me!

The sea was calm. Thankfully.

Dion hated travelling by sea. Loathed it, in fact.

The waves and the nausea and all those people trying to do conversation. Also the fear. Dion was brave, undoubtedly and fiercely so, but how can one feel safe on a floating piece of wood? He didn't think of himself as a  _pius_ 1 man, but Neptune only knew how many times Dion had called his sacred name, asking for calm waters and mercy.

Dion really couldn't wait to arrive to Rome, get off that wooden hell. It was driving him crazy.

He was literally  _itching_  with the need of it, the need of putting his feet on the soil, where they were supposed to be. He also desperately wanted to send his family the letters he'd just finished writing, to let them know he was okay.

He leaned over the edge of the ship and stared at the blue immensity around him.

They had left Spain a couple of weeks before, and Dion was bored and sick beyond imagination.

When he left his beloved Córdoba2,where most of his fondest memories lay, he hadn't thought in the slightest about the bloody trip. He just focused on how adventurous it'd be to live in the  _urbe_ 3. The Urbe with capital letter.

Poets,  _duces_ 4 and orators, they all sang the glory of that magnificent city, born from the milk of a wolf5.

When his aunt Lavinia had written his family, saying she was willing to offer Dion room and board for free for his studies in Rome, well, it had seemed like a blessing.

Due to his family huge debts, Dion had long given up his dream to become an orator like his father once had been.

He was now accustomed to the idea of having to join the army, maybe climb the  _cursus honorum_ 6 Claudius just changed, allowing soldiers to enter it. He could hope to become, maybe not a  _procurator_ , but at least a  _praefectus cohortis_! After all, his family was once made of equites 7. Not that he was thrilled at the idea. He’d much prefer be an orator and reach higher offices, avoiding the army if possible, ta very much. There was a time when his father had also served his part in the army, before retiring to dedicate to his  _ars oratoria_ 8.Then he discovered the dark pleasures of the sweet Spanish wine, and everything went to pieces.

Dion sighed, watching the endless blue stretching before him.

He already missed his dear sister Hermi. She was only six years old, and yet she had to help their mother with the house chores usually reserved to the slaves. Dion's father had contracted debts everywhere, and his family had to give away all their slaves.

Dion was scared; when the  _pater familias_  had no more slaves to repay his debts, he had to sell first his children, then his wife and lastly himself.

With all the slaves out of the way and his father’s carelessness, Dion was seriously worried that his little sister would be sold soon.

He couldn't risk that. He'd fight for her, till his last breath.

He would raise some money and buy a house for himself, then he would write to his mother and have her and Herminia come to live with him.

Dion actually smiled at this thought. Yes, it would have worked. It  _had_  to work.

 

°°°

 

“Oh Dion, look at you!” Lavinia hugged Dion tightly, before he could even spot her among the crowd.

The hug was uncomfortable, her jewels digging in his flesh.

When they finally separated, she commented again how much he had changed in those few months, all the while taking the luggage from Dion’s hands.

“Is this all that you have?” she asked, lifting her eyebrow.

Dion nodded and she shrugged, waving for one of the slaves with her to take care of the luggage.

Dion felt uncomfortable; he wasn’t used to slaves anymore, and he didn’t like the idea of that man dragging his stuff around while he did nothing.

“Dion, these are Antigonus and Caecina, my personal slaves,” Lavinia said cheerfully, gesturing theatrically.

Antigonus and Caecina remained unmoved, slightly bowing their heads. Dion smiled at them, nodding.

Then he felt his arm being grabbed, and before he knew it, Lavinia was dragging him away.

She kept smiling brightly at him, leading him through the harbour. It was amazing to watch how Roman people had built that immense port on the shore the Tiber river.

Seeing the way his aunt was staring at him and the soft tone with which she talked to him, Dion couldn’t stop thinking about what his mother had told him before he left.

“Be kind to your uncles, Dion, they probably want to adopt9 you. They have no children, and you’re almost eighteen and very, very clever,” she had smiled then, caressing his cheek.

To be adopted by them would be a blessing for Dion. He’d have their name, and he’d be able to pursue his studies and be an orator, avoiding the army. Being his uncle a senator, the climb in the  _cursus honorum_  would be so much easier! He could aspire to reach very high offices indeed.

Lavinia was actually  _thrilled_ , and couldn’t stop talking to Dion, pointing at houses and streets.

“Dion  _carus_ 10, I know you must be knackered, but would it be a problem for you if we stopped at the market?”

Dion remained silent for a few seconds, startled by the use of the endearment his mother used. It was strange and rather nostalgic hearing it from the mouth of his mother’s sister. Their voices were so similar.

“I, ah, no bother, I mean, it’s no problem at all,” he finally said, flashing his brightest smile at her.

She beamed at him, then followed her slaves through the colourful stalls. Never in his life Dion had seen a market so  _huge_. He could barely see where he was going, so many were the people pushing their way through the little streets.

“Erm, aunt Lavinia, forgive me for asking but… isn’t it inappropriate for a woman going alone at the market?” Dion asked, feeling rather stupid, but curious nonetheless.

Lavinia laughed, “You’re in Rome now, and I’m a rich woman, there’s little I can’t do,” she explained, and Dion nodded. Córdoba was very far indeed.

Suddenly, they stopped in front of a wooden platform, crowded with naked men and women.

_Oh no_ , thought Dion.

“Anything ya need, ma’am?” a corpulent man asked, standing up from his chair.

“ _Ave_ ,” Lavinia replied politely, “Do you have a good  _vocator_ 11?”

Dion balled his hands in fists, gritting his teeth. He wanted to throw up, to yell at them, “You’re talking about  _people_ , not bloody objects, you  _irrumatores_ 12!” But he didn’t. He watched in silent fury as the vendor scratched his beard in thought, scanning through the naked people on his stand. Oh no, there were two children. Hermi’s age. Dion watched them, naked and trembling, the  _titulus_ 12 around their thin necks. He felt tears sting in his eyes. He would  _never_ let this happen to Hermi. Never.

“Uhm, this one arrived this morning; excellent references, his master got killed in an awful business and the poor sod’s wife decided to sell everything, including the slaves,” while speaking, the man had reached behind a group of slaves huddled together, and he had retrieved a young boy, who was hiding behind them.

The boy was keeping his head bowed, his wild, dark brown hair concealing his face from view. His body was long and slender, his skin snow white. His  _titulus_ read, “Sherlock. 16 years old.  _Britannicus_ 14. Observant. Erudite.”

Lavinia got closer, tracing the words with her long fingernails.

“Erudite?” she asked, curiosity in her voice.

“Oh yes ma’am, ‘s told the lad here can speak Greek and taught his previous master’s children, despite his young age. If I can dare, ma’am, this one’s a keeper.”

Lavinia hummed thoughtfully, then she turned towards Dion, “What do you think dear?”

Dion started, absorbed as he was taking in the sight of the boy, who had just tilted his head up, pinning Dion with eyes the colour of the sea near the shore. He was hypnotized, couldn’t tear his head away. The boy was utterly  _beautiful_ , and his gaze was so proud, not at all a slave’s.

“I… uhm, I think… Well, a good  _vocator_ ’s main quality is to be observant, and he… well, his  _titulus_ says he is, and he’s also lettered, apparently, so he can send well written invitations, so…” Dion trailed off, having run out of things to say. He wanted his aunt to buy the boy. Hercules knew what kind of awful people could buy him. At least he knew that his aunt was a good person, and he… Oh, bollocks! He just liked the guy. No noble reasons behind his wish, just that the boy intrigued him.

“Buy him,” Lavinia ordered her slaves, then she smiled at Dion. He observed as Antigonus took out a leather bag full of jingling coins and negotiated with the vendor, while Caecina lead the boy by the ropes around his bruised wrists.

Dion’s heart started beating faster in his chest as the boy drew closer. He took a deep breath.

They were taking him home. They were  _actually_ going to have him around the house. Dion looked again the boy in the eye, catching his stare again.  _Sherlock_ , Dion thought, rolling the name on his tongue.

It sounded good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Pius_ : religious.  
> 2\. One of the many colonies of Rome.  
> 3\. _Urbs_ : city.  
> 4\. _Dux_ : commander.  
> 5\. Romolo and Remo's legend.  
> 6\. Sequential order of public offices held by aspiring politicians ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cursus_honorum))  
> 7\. Aristochratic class ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equites))  
> 8\. The art of speaking in public.  
> 9\. It was habit in Ancient Rome to adopt teenagers, usually eighteen-year olds ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adoption_in_ancient_Rome))  
> 10\. _Carus_ : dear. Used as endearment towards relatives  
> 11\. Slave who had to make the list of guests for a party and to observe their behaviour.  
> 12\. _Irrumātor_ (slang): bastard, asshole.  
>  13\. Signboard put around the slaves’ neck with their generality and qualities.  
> 14\. _Britannicus_ : British. 
> 
> Please, leave a comment to let me know what you thought! :)  
> Come stalk me on [tumblr](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD  
> I wrote this chapter, like, 30 times, I'm feeling all wobbly now.  
> My computer got a virus, and deleted this chapter multiple times. Moreover, I started to read and translate Petronius' _Satyricon_ and, though I'm loving it, I'm feeling quite crossed with Latin these days. 
> 
> Unbeta'd. Point out any mistakes, it really helps me!

The morning light flooded Dion’s room slowly, lapping his bed sheet first, and then crawling up his body to warm his face. He stirred with a smile, feeling fully rested. He had been in Rome for nine days now, and he was  _loving_  it.   

The night before his aunt had hosted a splendid  _convivium_ 1, and Dion had had the time of his life. He had eaten in his own chair beside Lavinia’s feet, like a real son would. She had been beautiful that night, half lying on her couch, charming her hosts and being the real centre of the party. Dion was totally dumbfounded; his aunt, a  _woman_ , had held a convivium all by herself.

For the first couple of days, he’d asked himself where his uncle Titus was. He had learnt that the man was in Carthage to visit a friend who had recently been promoted  _proconsul_ 2 of Africa, and he wasn’t expected home for a couple of months.

Dion found himself growing more and more anxious at the perspective of meeting his uncle; Lavinia loved him to bits, that was pretty clear, but at the party Dion had overheard someone saying that they were glad Titus was in Africa, because he was a spoilsport,  always grumpy and angry, and quick to violence.

Dion wondered how a woman as magnificent as Lavinia could bear to stay married to a man like Titus, if the voices were true.

Dion shook his head, rubbing a hand through his hair. Better not to dwell on these thought, he didn’t even know his uncle. Moreover, how could he trust the people at the party after what had happened? Remembering the events of the night before, Dion found himself immediatly awake. He had to talk to Sherlock about what happened. How did Sherlock manage to work it out?  _Edepol_ 3, that slave really was intriguing.

After he’d seen Lavinia drink wine4, Dion thought nothing could surprise him anymore that night. What woman can do that? Hercules, neither he could drink wine until he was thirty, and he was already considered a  _vir_ 5! But then Sherlock had appeared from nowhere and had told Lavinia that a couple of guests were there under false identities. Lavinia hadn’t believed him at first, but then the slave had started to whisper frenetically in her ear and her eyes had widened. She had given Sherlock some coins and told him to send away the unwanted guests. When Sherlock was out of earshot, Lavinia had leaned over and told Dion, “You advised me well about that slave, he’s the best  _vocator_  we’ve ever had! He’s so clever.” Dion hadn’t heard Sherlock’s words to his aunt though, and he was desperately curious to understand how he had worked out the identities of the two men.

                                                                                                                                                                      

°°°

 

“Dion, you have your lesson with your  _grammaticus_ 6 in an hour, isn’t it early to go out?” Lavinia asked as she motherly straightened his toga, smiling at him.

“Yeah, I know, I just wanted to… have a look around, now that I know the way,” he lied smoothly. He just needed time so he could find Sherlock and ask him about the night before.

“Do you want Antigonus or another slave to go with you?” she asked, her forehead furrowed in concern.  Dion was going to say that no, he knew the way, but then he thought better.

“Maybe Sherlock can walk with me,” he suggested.

His aunt’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “Oh, well, I guess… Sherlock is alright too? Go call him, and come back before dark,” she said, caressing his cheek. He smiled at her, shouting a “ _Vale!_ ” as he ran away.

He happily trotted towards the wing of the  _villa_  where the slaves stayed.

“Sherlock?” he called, because damn it, he couldn’t see anyone around. He probably lost the way again in that incredibly big hous-

“Yes, sir?” a voice to his left said, and Dion started, surprised at the proximity.

“ _Pō_ 7, where were you hiding?” Dion exclaimed, bringing his hand to his chest, trying to slow down his heartbeat.

The slave merely lifted an eyebrow, “I was already  here when you entered the room, sir.”

Dion blushed, how come he hadn’t noticed him? He cleared his throat, “My aunt wants you to walk me to my grammaticus,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

Sherlock looked sceptical, but he eventually nodded, “I’ll just bring this firewood to the fireplace over there and I’ll be at your service, sir.”

Dion hadn’t even noticed the boy was carrying some small logs with him, as captivated as he was staring at his particular features.

Back in Cordoba, Dion had had his fair share of girls who fancied him, mostly because of his blue eyes, that were a rarity in Spain, along with his blond hair.

But this slave’s eyes, oh, they were nothing like Dion had seen before. Dion had caught himself staring at the younger boy multiple times in the previous days. His hair, his mouth, his nose, his shoulders, his legs…  _Mehercules_! He was one of the most beautiful creatures that Dion had ever encountered.

“Right,” Dion said, averting his eyes, “See ya outside,” he muttered, and then he flew out of the house.

Sherlock arrived a few minutes later, and without a word, they started walking towards the centre of the city, where the  _forum_ was.

The Italian sun was just as warm as in Spain, and for a  moment Dion pretended to be at home, walking the streets of his beloved city.

“Did you want to ask me something, sir?” Sherlock asked, startling him out of his fantasy.

“Uh?” he cleverly retorted.

Sherlock snorted, and Dion found himself fascinated by this slave, who showed such condescension towards his masters.

“You know the way to your grammaticus, and other slaves, like Antigonus or Myron know Rome better than I do, so you asked  _me_  to come with you so that we could have some private time and you could talk to me about something. Am I wrong, sir?”

Dion linked his hands behind his back, peering up at Sherlock. He really was very clever, as his aunt had told him.

“No, you’re not. I did want to ask you about something,” Dion said at last, after a few seconds of silence. “I was merely curious as to how you figured out those two men were lying, yesterday during the  _convivium_.”

Sherlock chewed on his lower lip, and damn it, he was so beautiful that Dion couldn’t stand to look at him.

“Don’t let my age fool you; I’m a good vocator, and I’ve assisted in convivia much bigger than this one.”

Dion huffed out a laugh, “My uncles belong to one of the richest  _gentes_ 8 in Rome!” he exclaimed, “How can you have participated to bigger convivia?”

Sherlock looked away, “My previous master was very close with the emperor.” Dion stopped dead. He gaped at Sherlock, because bloody hell!

“What? But… who?” he breathed, and Sherlock sighed, keeping his gaze on the hills that were visible from their spot.

“Doesn’t matter who. I’d rather not talk about it, sir.”

Dion looked up at Sherlock, furrowing his brow. The vendor at the market said that Sherlock’s previous master was killed. Perhaps Sherlock feared for his safety? He decided to drop the subject. He’d ask Sherlock another time, maybe after the slave started to trust him.

“Alright then,” Dion shrugged, “how did you work it out?”

Sherlock smiled smugly, “It was obvious, really. My duties as a vocator include sending the invitations, and in every letter I send, I write something different: an unusual greeting, or a particular expression.  All I have to do is ask every guest, upon their arrival, simple questions about the invitations, like ‘I’m new here, sir. Did you find your invitation acceptable?’ and so on. This way, I can always know if people actually received the invitation or are just pretending to be someone they aren’t.”

“This is… This is brilliant!” Dion exclaimed, utterly in awe of the gorgeous boy walking beside him.

“You-you think so, sir?” Sherlock looked surprised, and Dion chuckled, shaking his head.

“Yes, of course it is! I've never met a more ingenious person! Usually vocatores only send out the invitations and keep an eye on who is throwing up the most at the end of the dinner, so they won’t invite them again.”

“You don’t think it was too indiscrete of me talking to the guests?” Sherlock murmured, looking at the ground.

Dion shook his head, “Oh Sherlock, of course I don’t.” Dion wanted to tell him that he wasn’t used to slaves, that he didn’t see any differences between free men and slaves, I mean, just look at Callistus9! But he stayed silent, not wanting to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable. So he grinned up at him, winking. Wait, did the slave… blush?

Sherlock ducked his head, smiling softly at the road beneath their feet. He cleared his throat, “Thank you… sir.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, Dion enjoying the sight immensily. Rome was so alive! It made his head spin. All those voices, mixing up in different languages, and those eccentric smells, and the buildings... Oh, the buildings! Some were so high, Dion couldn’t believe they had been built by mere mortals.

“Sir, pardon my insolence, but I think you should fire your grammaticus. He’s an idiot.”

Dion’s head snapped up, “Sorry, what? Ho-how can you say that, you never met him!”

“λάθε βιώσας10,” Sherlock said suddenly, looking straight into Dion’s eyes. Dion stopped breathing for a few seconds, then he looked away, clearing his throat. Sherlock hummed, “I thought so. You see, he’s an incompetent.”

“I don’t even know what you just said!” Dion exclaimed, gesturing with his arms.

“That’s why your grammaticus is an incompetent. It was Greek,” Sherlock crossed his arms, sucking in his lower lip, “ _Basic_  Greek, really. Epicurus’ quote, by the way.”

“Who?” Dion asked, feeling rather dumb.

“Oh, I cannot believe this!” Sherlock all but yelled, and Dion jumped in surprise, “What do they teach young people these times?”

“Sherlock, you’re younger than me,” Dion pointed out, feeling rather annoyed. Sherlock wasn’t explaining him  _anything_ , just speaking as if Dion should already know everything he talked about. It made Dion feel immensely stupid.

Sherlock sighed again, “What sort of grammaticus doesn’t teach Greek? Or Philosophy? Yeah, maybe he’s a Stoic and not an Epicurean, but you should at least  _know_  who Epicurus was, and enough Greek to translate those two words. Trust me, your grammaticus is worth nothing, especially if you want to be an orator.”

“But… He’s one of the best grammatici in Rome!”

Sherlock scoffed, “I could do a better job than he,” he mumbled.

Something clicked in Dion’s mind, and he spoke before he could change his mind.  

“Well, if you’re so much better than he is-”

“I am,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Then you’re gonna teach me.”

Sherlock stopped walking, staring at Dion.

“Y-you want me to teach you, sir?” he asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

“If you’re as good as you say,” Dion retorted, resuming to walk.

“I am,” Sherlock almost growled, as he hurried to reach Dion.

Dion chuckled, “I have no doubt.”

“Sir, will your aunt agree?”

“Let’s just ask her,” Dion replied, a wide grin on his face.

He turned and resumed the way home.

 

°°°

 

“Are you sure this is a good idea Dion?” Lavinia asked for the millionth time that evening.

Dion stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes aunt Lavinia, I assure you, Sherlock is perfect for the job. Don’t you remember? His titulus said he was erudite, and the vendor told us that he taught his previous master’s kids.”

“Exactly Dion,  _kids_. You’re older than he is!”

“Doesn’t mean I’m more cultured than he is,” Dion said, crossing his arms on his chest.

Lavinia sighed dramatically. “Alright. Your grammaticus won’t accept you back if I told him you don’t want to follow his lessons anymore,” she said, and Dion shrugged.

“No Dion, you need to have a plan B. What if Sherlock isn’t as good as he says? I tell you what, I’ll just tell your grammaticus that you’re sick, so you have about one week to change your mind, understood?”

Dion beamed at her, “Yes, perfect.” He looked at his aunt, so kind and gentle, and all that was good in that world. He thought about how fast she was growing fond of him, how easily she started to treat him like a son.

“Thank you. For everything,” Dion murmured, with a serious expression.

Lavinia smiled softly at him, caressing his cheek.

Dion nodded and then ran out of the room to look for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Convivium_ : basically, it’s the Roman equivalent of a dinner party. Literally, it means ‘living together’, which shows us that Romans viewed meals as an occasion to socialize.  
> 2\. Governor of a province in the Roman Republic ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Proconsul))  
> 3\. _Edepol_ : by Pollux! (interjection)  
> 4\. Wine was very important to Romans, and only men over 30 could drink it. During the Imperial period though the richest women (matronae) were allowed to behave much more freely, and therefore drink wine.  
> 5\. _Vĭr_ : man, adult  
> 6\. Responsible for the second stage in the traditional education system ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grammarian_\(Greco-Roman_world\)))  
> 7\. _Pō_ : oh! (interjection of surprise)  
> 8\. _Gens_ : all those individuals who shared the same nomen and claimed descent from a common ancestor ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gens))  
> 9\. Callistus was a very famous and rich freedman, who was very close to Caligula. ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaius_Julius_Callistus))  
> 10\. _λάθε βιώσας_ (read: “lathe biosas”), expression that sums up [Epicurus](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epicurus)’ view about politics. ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epicurus#Politics)) (expect a heck of a lot of Epicurus, I love him!)
> 
> Writing this fic is proving to be very challenging; for every single thing I write, I have to either look up on the Internet or check on my textbooks, and even writing just 1k words becomes an immense effort. For example, I had forgotten _everything_ about convivia, so I had to retrieve my old notes and textbooks. Good thing I like the Roman culture haha  
>  I love doing this tho! Just warning you, updates won't be frequent.
> 
> Comments are very much appreciated, either here or on my [blog](http://mycroftcakeholmes.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Using English names in this fic was driving me batshit crazy, and after an exchange of thoughts in the comments section with a reader (thank you for your suggestions!) I managed to come up with a few more historically accurate names. I made a little glossary in the [notes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3270362/chapters/7132388) at the beginning of Chapter 1. 
> 
> Careful: the chapter you are going to read contains philosophy. You have been advised.
> 
> Also, forgive me for being so slow. It's been some sort of a rough period, but everything is fine now :)

“What tense is this verb, Dion?”

“Is that even a word?”

“Focus, Dion!”

“I don’t know, I don’t even know _what_ verb it is!”

“Yes, you do.”

“I assure you I don’t.”

“It’s incredible, we translated that verb not two seconds ago!”

“Do not yell at me!”

“Mehercules, Dion! It’s in the line above.”

“That’s not the same word.”

“IT’S _AORIST_ 1! It changes, Dion!”

“Oh, now you’re just taking the piss! How can that even be the same word?!”

Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Dion crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at the slave.

They were in an empty room of his uncles’ villa, Dion sat on a comfortable chair in the middle of the room, while Sherlock stood in front of him. He kept pacing back and forth, kicking at rolls of parchment that lay abandoned on the floor.

“Admit it,” Dion growled, glaring at him.

Sherlock looked up with a puzzled expression. “What?”

“That you can’t teach. Admit it.”

Sherlock scowled and opened his mouth to reply, but Dion beat him to it, “You cannot possibly expect me to know all this stuff in advance, so just stop explaining me things that I have no means to comprehend!”

“It’s not that _I_ can’t teach, it’s that _you_ can’t learn!” Sherlock exclaimed, waving his fists in the air, looking just like Hermi when she didn’t get what she wanted.

Dion smiled bitterly, “Ah, this is sweet. Never had a trouble learning _anything_ in my entire lif-”

“You didn’t have any troubles because you never actually _learnt_ anything,” Sherlock snapped.

Dion slammed his hands on his thighs. “Right,” he said, staring at his lap. He got up, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes.

“This was fun, sorry it didn’t work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go tell my aunt that I’m going back to my grammaticus,” he finished, opening the door. He bowed his head in a mock salute, “ _Vale_.”

“Mehercul- wait,” Sherlock called, sounding incredibly tired.

Dion turned, leaning with his hip on the doorframe. He sighed, “Listen Sherlock, we tried, alright? It’s been six days and I only managed to learn the Greek alphabet and the Greek insults you shouted at me.”

“You’re eighteen Dion, it’s unbelievable that someone of your social background and age doesn’t know _anything_ about Greek or philosophy. I’m just…” Sherlock lowered his gaze, playing with a roll of parchment with his foot, “It’s a new situation for me too. I cannot treat you like I treated my previous master’s kids, because you’re older than me, but I cannot even behave like I would with people of your age, because you can’t-”

“Listen,” Dion interrupted him, not wanting to hear how that sentence would end, “it’s not a matter of _ingenium_ 2  here, it’s useless that you yell at me if I don’t know the basics.”

“But that’s exactly the point! _How_ can you not know this stuff?” Sherlock was genuinely baffled, not mocking, so Dion tried not to let his pride be wounded by this.

“I told you. My father used to teach me at home, because he said he didn’t trust schools, then he became… unavailable as a teacher, so I continued to study by myself at the public library, since we couldn’t afford the local school anymore by then.”

“Alright, but… Didn’t you pick up a Greek book?”

Dion rolled his eyes, “I didn’t even know the Greek alphabet, how was I supposed to read and understand an entire book?”

“A philosophy one?” Sherlock pressed on, taking a step forward.

“Nope,” Dion replied, shaking his head. “I wasn’t interested.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if Dion had just slapped him, and his mouth let out a strangled noise. It was the funniest reaction that Dion had ever seen, and he suddenly found himself laughing.

“What _was_ that?” He asked, without managing to stop giggling like an idiot.

Sherlock didn’t answer, staring impassibly at Dion. That just made the boy laugh harder, and after a few seconds of proud indignation, Sherlock started to chuckle along with Dion.

“Now stop giggling, this is a serious lesson,” Sherlock said at last, still smiling brightly.

Dion sobered up, grinning up at the slave. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, and his amused expression finally made him look like an actual 16-year-old boy.

“For the record, I don’t think you’re stupid,” Sherlock continued, wrapping his arms around himself. “And that’s why I yell, because I keep forgetting that someone as bright you could be so ignorant.”

Dion took a moment to take in Sherlock’s comment, and decided that the boy meant well, so he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, and Sherlock let out a relieved sigh, confirming Dion’s suspicions about his difficulty in expressing his feelings.

Since then, things went better. Sherlock stopped snapping at Dion, who started to learn the basics of the Greek language. Lavinia was ecstatic, and promised Dion that she would send him to Athens as soon as he was ready. Dion studied even harder after that promise, and Sherlock was absolutely delighted to see his progresses. After all, every boy of good family of Dion’s age went to Greece to complete their studies, and Dion was endlessly fascinated by the possibility to visit that exotic place. Every orator he admired and read had studied there, and he couldn’t miss that opportunity.

Things began to go better in his relationship with Sherlock as well. They became sort of pals, creating a special bond that went _way_ beyond the normal master-slave relationship, and couldn’t even be categorized as a student-tutor one. They were inseparable, and got along perfectly, like they had been friends for their whole life. Dion went everywhere with Sherlock, whether it was the market place, the _forum_ or the _circus_. At home they were always together as well, and Lavinia was open-minded enough to allow Dion to have Sherlock eating beside him.

After only one month, Dion was already capable of translating full sentences without anyone’s aid, and that was when Sherlock began teaching him philosophy. Initially Dion had wondered, what did philosophy have to do with his _ars oratoria_? Shouldn’t Sherlock be teaching him about the importance of the _concinnitas_ 4 to balance a sentence, about the method of _loci_ 4, about all the elements that made a speech flawless, persuading, elegant? When he asked Sherlock these questions, the boy threw a bunch of rolls of parchment to his head, causing him to fall off his chair. They stared at each other in silence, then they both started to laugh uncontrollably. When the laughter died down, Sherlock explained him that everything would be clear to Dion by the time they read Aristotle’s “ _Τέχνη ῥητορική_ 5”. Dion trusted him.

Sherlock had an… unusual approach to philosophy. He didn’t teach Dion just the philosophers he deemed as more important than others (as many _grammatici_ did). Sherlock started from the very beginning, from philosophers that no one remembered, covering them carefully, making Dion understand every concept they had expressed in their lives. Another aspect that made his teaching special, was that Sherlock preferred a practical approach, making every lesson enjoyable and unforgettable. When they studied Thales for example, Sherlock took Dion on the Tiber banks. They left in the morning, wandering out of Rome, amidst the woods that surrounded the city. They ate bread with butter and honey for lunch, then swam in the cool water, as Sherlock explained to Dion how Thales thought that the secret of life was resided in the water. That night Dion found himself dreaming of swimming among blue waves, a feeling of peace and _aliveness_ pervading him even after he woke up.

Then there was that time when Sherlock got Dion walking and walking around the _forum_ as he enunciated what Parmenides thought about the existence. He told Dion that walking would have helped him to understand the complex philosopher better, but those theories got Dion a terrible headache anyway, and Sherlock had to explain again and again Parmenides’ thinking. Dion was genuinely _terrified_ when, after  they finally left the Eleatic philosopher behind, he found out that the cryptic bastard had founded a school of thought. Sherlock told him that his followers would be easier to understand, but Dion didn’t quite believe him this time.  

And how to forget the day Sherlock talked to Dion about Empedocles’ philosophy?

“Empedocles thought that four ‘elements’ made all the structures in the world – write this down Dion. These elements are: fire, air, water and earth,” he said, waving those elegant hands of his around, so unlike a slave’s.

John wrote everything down, chewing on his lower lip. “Got it,” he hesitated, “Wait, but there must be something that brings these elements together? I mean, if I pour water on a fire, it dies. So, how can they combine?”

Sherlock smirked, “Come with me,” he said, offering Dion his hand.

Dion took it and let the younger boy pull him up from his chair and drag him around the house.

Sherlock stopped in front of the little altar in honour of the _Lares_ 6. Dion bowed his head respectfully, and Sherlock kneeled, as a slave was supposed to do. When he got up, Sherlock grabbed one of the tallow candles, careful to keep the flame alive.

“There are two invisible forces,” he murmured, careful not to raise his voice too much in front of the Lares’ sacred corner, “Φιλότης and Νεῖκος.”

“Philòtes and neikos, love and strife,” Dion translated readily, and Sherlock nodded. “Precisely, just when you write them down, remember the capital letter, they are philosophical concepts.”

Dion took a step forward, hypnotized by Sherlock’s face, illuminated only by the warm, dim light of the candle.

“Look at the fire that burns this wick,” Sherlock continued, “See? It is connected with it, they are inexorably brought together by Φιλότης, and yet their balance is not stable, because of the constant presence of Νεῖκος. That is life, Dion. Initially, there was only χάος. Which is…” Sherlock prompted Dion.

“Uhm, to Greek people chaos is… the chasm that existed before the creation of the universe?”

Sherlock smiled, putting back the candle, kneeling again as he did so. Dion bowed his head, murmuring a short prayer of thanksgiving to the _Lares_ for their protection.

“Very well, Dion. You see, Empedocles thought that we are stuck in an endless cycle; if there is contention between Love and Strife, then we have life, and everything that exists. But when only Love prevails, or only Strife, then there is just χάος, and there can’t be life.”

Dion listened carefully, fascinated by this theory, but more than everything, from the mouth that was explaining it so clearly. He didn’t notice he was staring at Sherlock’s lips until it was too late, and the slave had caught his stare. They stood there frozen, until Sherlock took a step forward, speaking with a warm, yet tenderly unsure voice.

“Φιλότης brings the elements together,” he murmured, bringing up his hand to show Dion his palm. Dion took the hint and pressed his skin against Sherlock's, trying as hard as he could not to tremble as he did so.

“But Νεῖκος will inevitably separate them,” the slave finished, looking away with a sad look, lowering his hand. Dion caught it mid-air, in a sudden impetus. “Can’t a universe exist if there is only Love?” he asked, holding Sherlock’s hand in a death grip. The slave snatched his hand away, walking back to their room.

“We are talking about forces that connect and separate the four elements, not about emotional nonsense.”

After that last, strange lesson about Empedocles, Sherlock talked to him about Zeno of Elea, follower of Parmenides, and about his paradoxes. They were strolling around the market, when Sherlock pointed at a kid tossing an apple in the air and catching it in his hand.

“You see that apple?” Sherlock asked, smirking. Dion nodded, following the fruit with his eyes.

“How do you know it is moving?” He questioned, and Dion looked up at Sherlock with a frown.

“Look at it carefully. That apple is continuously occupying a portion of space. If we could have a machine to slow down its movement, you would see it’s just a sequence of stilled moments. This is what Zeno provocatively implied, that movement does not exist.”

Dion laughed in his face, but after studying the paradox of Achilles and the tortoise, he had to rethink about his whole life. After seeing Dion’s internal crisis, it was Sherlock’s turn to laugh. Only after hours and hours of Dion’s frenetic attempts at rationalising the concept outside the realm of mathematics, Sherlock explained to him that it was only a theoretical concept, and that Zeno had fun creating insoluble paradoxes, one of the reasons why he was considered to be the inventor of dialectic. Sherlock told Dion to write down everything he was going to tell him about Zeno’s dialectic, because it would be paramount for his _ars oratoria_.  

Then there was Dion’s favourite lesson ever, the night they listened to the sky, after studying Pythagoras and his scholars' theories about the connections that existed between music, mathematics and geometry.  

He and Sherlock lay on the grass outside the _villa_ , with blankets and food, along with two narrow tents where they would spend the night when sleep came to claim them. Sherlock showed him the various constellations, telling him their names and the names of the stars that composed them, both in Latin and Greek. Dion was astonished at the discovery that one of Pythagoras’ follower suggested that the Earth might be round, and not flat. Sherlock shrugged, “His calculations make sense,” he simply commented. But the thing that Dion loved the most about that night wasn’t just Sherlock’s apparently endless knowledge, or all the fascinating things he was learning. What Dion could never forget, was Sherlock’s warmth beside him, his hushed voice, and the expression of pure and utter _bliss_ when he told Dion that the planets, when they move, play a magnificent, flawless melody, that humans cannot hear. As time dragged on and Sherlock went on explaining, Dion curled in a ball beside the slave, laying his head on his shoulder. Without missing a word, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Dion, holding him there.

They fell asleep like that, their little tents forgotten, listening to the stars playing for them a sweet symphony.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Aorist_ : one of the tenses for Ancient Greek verbs. ([x](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aorist_%28Ancient_Greek%29))  
> 2\. _Ingenium_ : intelligence, natural capacity.  
> 3\. _Concinnitas_ : an elegant or skillful joining of several things; beauty of style.  
> 4\. The method of loci is basically Sherlock's mind palace, and it was a mnemonic device already adopted in ancient Roman and Greek rhetoricians. Seriously, it's pretty useful (apart from cool), look it up! :)  
> 5\. _Τέχνη ῥητορική_ (read: téchne rhētorikē) is a book written by Aristotle for the students of his lyceum.  
>  6\. _Lares_ : guardian deities in ancient Roman religion (they were often protectors of the household).  
> If you have any questions about the philosophers mentioned, ask me in the comments! Also, this is unbeta'd, therefore if you spot a mistake, please let me know and I'll fix it immediatly!  
> See you soon! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I have not forgotten this story and yes, I will finish it. 
> 
> School happened then holidays, then uni tests and in the middle other stories crowded in my head. But here I am. 
> 
> This chapter, the magic happens, finally! Enjoy :) xx

Sherlock was acting strangely.

He wasn't taking Dion out for their philosophy lessons anymore, just giving him _orationes_ and _orationes_ to read and learn by heart. That wasn't Sherlock's method. At all.

Sherlock privileged the practical approach, and loathed any learning technique that involved “not using one's _ingenium_.”

And yet, here Dion was, reading Cicero’s _orationes_ for the umpteenth time that day.

Sherlock sat pensively on the floor in front of him, chewing on his stylus and scribbling quickly, looking as though Dion did not exist. Great.

Dion avoided asking him what on earth was going on, because Sherlock always found a way not to answer the question. Dion sighed and resumed reading.

“Read this,” Sherlock suddenly said, handing him a piece of parchment. It was a poem.

“Did you compose this?” Dion asked after a few seconds, momentarily startled by Sherlock's voice. He talked so rarely these days. 

“Of course not,” the slave answered with distaste, “It's a poem by the poet Catullus, I remember it by heart.”

Dion arched an eyebrow, puzzled.

“Oh, come on Dion,” Sherlock huffed, “Cicero is obviously boring you, and your mind keeps wandering. You think too loudly. And your sad face is distracting me.”

“Yeah, what exactly am I distracting you from?”

Sherlock shrugged, “None of your business.”

Dion felt anger build inside him, after a week of Sherlock getting to his nerves, he exploded. “Except that it is, isn't it? I'm your master, aren’t I?”

Sherlock set his jaw, and Dion didn't allow the hurt surprise in his eyes get to him. He had every right to be angry.

“I'm sorry, master Dion,” Sherlock replied smoothly, just a trace of annoyance and hurt in his voice, “I meant no disrespect. I am also sorry to let you know that our lesson is over, and I have other chores to attend to. Have a good day.” Stiffly, gathered his notes, got up, and flew out the room.

Dion stared after him, stunned. He rubbed a hand over his face. 

Bloody great.

 

°°°

 

That night Sherlock didn't show up for supper.

“Where's your slave?” Lavinia asked, popping some grapes in her red mouth.

Dion sighed, “He had some chores to do,” he lied. Sherlock never had anything to do in the evening. Lavinia nodded, smearing honey on her bread.

“You know, I was talking with the other women at Marcellus Octavius’ _convivium_ the other night, and they told me that honey can be dangerous for health. They said that the beekeepers that furnish our market did not pray the gods, and now the honey is poisonous and the bees are dying,” Lavinia said with a careless tone, then bit on her bread, “I don't believe these silly stories though.”

Dion smiled. He liked talking with Lavinia. She knew every gossip in Rome, but was far too clever to care.

“Well you know Aristaeus’ myth1,” Dion commented, and took a sip of cool water. A slave promptly filled his cup again. He was getting used to being served, Dion thought, blushing slightly.

“That's the same thing I thought!” Lavinia exclaimed merrily, apparently happy that Dion shared her view.

“There's no foundation in this rumour, maybe someone just took Aristaeus’ tale and let their fantasy take control.”

Dion nodded, leaning with his head on the plush triclinium.

“How are your lessons going, _carus_?”

Dion shrugged. “Wonderfully,” he grumbled.

“Is there something you'd like to tell me?” Lavinia asked, ogling him suspiciously.

Dion thought about the past week, about how weirdly Sherlock had behaved, how silent and thoughtful and worried he had looked. How mean Dion himself had been that afternoon.  
He shook his head. “No Aunt Lavinia, nothing at all.”

 

°°°

 

Dion was woken up in the middle of the night by a pair of small, delicate hands violently shaking him.

“Master Dion, master Dion!” a female voice was yelling. She sounded scared, and urgent, and John jerked up in a matter of seconds.

“ ‘ts goin’ on?” He slurred, trying to will his eyes to focus on the blurry figure in front of him.

“It’s Sherlock, master Dion.”

Dion’s heart jumped in his ribcage.

He looked at the girl in front of him, suddenly awake. He knew her, she was one of Lavinia’s personal _ancillae_ , Myron.

“What happened?” he asked, getting out of bed and following the young slave, who was already running down the corridor, the flame on the candle she held wobbling worryingly.

“The other slaves, master,” she started, a tad breathless, “they were jealous of how close he was to you, thought you were going to set him free, and you know how it is, sir, jealousy is the illness of the _animus_ 2. And you know how Sherlock is, sir,  the other slaves don’t particularly like him because he is so clever, and sometimes he says mean things, but he doesn-”

“Myron!” Dion interrupted her, “could you please tell me what happened?”

Dion followed the young girl into the slave wing, and watched as Myron nodded.

“They have, erm, they’ve beaten him, sir.”

Dion couldn’t help the feeling of both cold dread and utter rage that made his head feel light and his vision go red at the edges.

“How is he?” he growled, following Myron inside a room with dozens of girls asleep on the floor.

Myron pursed her lips, “Not good, sir.”

Right then, Dion saw a figure that wasn’t feminine at all.

Sherlock lay in a foetal position on the floor, shaking like a leaf.

“ _Mehercules_ ,” Dion muttered, kneeling beside him and caressing his curls.

“Sherlock?” He asked, and the slave turned his head to stare up at him.

“Dion?” He questioned weakly, and Dion felt weak so much was the relief that washed over him when Sherlock recognized him. He remembered well that time his friend Marcus had fallen from a horse, and couldn’t remember where he was or who Dion was. He had died a week later.

“Yes, it’s me,” he whispered, grinning down at Sherlock, despite the dampness in his eyes.

“Myron, can you help me take Sherlock to my room, please?” Dion looked up at Myron, who nodded and immediately took a hold of Sherlock’s feet. Dion placed his arms underneath Sherlock’s armpits and slowly, he and Myron managed to get Sherlock to Dion’s room, and laid him on the bed.

Dion tucked him in, settling the covers all around the slave’s slim frame. He caressed his cheek before turning to Myron. “Thank you,” he whispered, and she bowed, smiling.

“Don’t tell anyone about this story, alright? I’ll talk to my aunt tomorrow,” John added, and Myron nodded. “I promise sir.”

“Take care of him, sir,” she eventually murmured, and disappeared, closing the wooden door behind her.

Dion turned back to Sherlock, and examined his battered face in candlelight. His right cheekbone was swollen and purplish, and there was a big bump on his forehead. Dion wanted to check his ribs as well, guessing that the slave’s chest and torso would be the most injured parts of his body. That would mean divesting Sherlock, though. While the man in question was still asleep. That wouldn’t be good, Dion thought. He’d check him in the morning, he finally decided, with the sun light. Perhaps he’d call a proper _medicus_ to check on the boy. 

Yeah, he’d do that. After he caught some sleep. John lay beside Sherlock, his bed big enough for two, but stayed above the cover, ready to jump out quickly in case the slave needed anything.

Dion didn’t remember falling asleep, so he bolted upright when he felt Sherlock’s voice slurring his name.

“Do you need anything?” He asked, just a bit out of breath, his heart beating fast, like it always happens when someone is woken up unexpectedly.

“W-water,” Sherlock asked, and John jumped off his bed, and ran to the ceramic jar he kept in his room, and filled a bowl. He carefully brought it back to the bed, and sat down on the mattress, tipping the bowl and softly placing the hem against Sherlock’s lower lip. The boy drank with gusto, and when he was finished, Dion filled the bowl again and repeated the process.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, closing his eyes and lying back against the fluffy pillows.

Dion smiled down at his boyish features, and could refrain from smoothing his hair back, and trailing his fingers down his cheek. “No problem,” he murmured back.

Sherlock’s body stiffened, and his eyes flew open. “I shouldn’t be in your room,” he said, and he sounded panicked.

Dion frowned, turning to place the ceramic bowl, now empty, on the floor. Then he turned to stare Sherlock right in the eye. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock shook his head and yep, that was totally panic written on his face. “It was Myron, wasn’t it? She shouldn’t have called, she shouldn’t have, oh no.” Sherlock started to wriggle then, evidently trying to get up, but he was still too weak to make a real attempt. Dion held him down by his shoulders.

“Shh, Sherlock, calm down,” he said, now scared, “What’s wrong? Tell me, please, you’re scaring me.”

Sherlock shook his head vigorously, gritting his teeth. “They can’t know, please Dion, take me back to the slave wing, if they knew I’m sleeping here…” Sherlock didn’t finish the sentence, and tried to get up again.

Dion thought he had figured out what the matter was. “Okay,” he said, and Sherlock calmed down. “I’ll take you back downstairs, but can I expose my theory before?”

Sherlock shot him a worried look, but didn’t complain, so Dion took a deep breath and spoke.

“Could it possibly be that the reason why you have been acting weird all week was because the other slaves threatened you because of your closeness to me?”

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, his face an expressionless mask. _Gotcha_ , Dion thought.

“You said that you would be taking me back after your idiotic theory.” Sherlock’s voice was toneless, flat.

“Listen,” Dion started, and Sherlock’s jaw muscles twitched, “I know you think you can solve this on your own by stopping talking to me, but that’s not the solution.”

Sherlock didn’t answer, so Dion went on. “I could talk to my aunt, she will know what to do.”

Sherlock shook his head, “That’s the stupidest idea you have had.”

Dion was going to retort that it wasn’t, but thought better of it. _Think of how angrier the other slaves will be, if they get punished because of Sherlock, idiot_ , Dion thought.

“Can you help me get back now?” Sherlock asked, impatiently.

Dion shook his head, closing his eyes, “I’m not sending you back amongst those beasts, there must be some solution.”

Dion’s eyes snapped open. “I’m an idiot,” he chuckled, and Sherlock frowned at him.

“Sherlock,” Dion exclaimed, cupping the boy’s face in his hands, ignoring the startled look in his grey eyes, “Be my personal slave.”

Before Sherlock could object, Dion rambled on, “Think about it; you’ll sleep in my room, and be with me every waking moment, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the others.”

Sherlock said nothing, and Dion felt cold rejection tearing his chest apart. “Unless you don’t want to.”

Still Sherlock was silent, so Dion turned his face to blow on the candle, that was till lit and way shorter than it had been when Dion had accidentally fallen asleep. He lay beside Sherlock once again, and it was awkward.

“You’re serious?” Sherlock’s voice was quavering, unsure, fragile.

Dion turned to face Sherlock in the dark. His eyes had not adjusted yet and he could barely make out the boy’s contour.

“Yes,” he answered, a fluttering hope in his chest.

Silence.

Then, “I’m up to it, if you’re still agreeable.”

Dion’s grin was probably have been brighter than the sun, he thought. “I am.”

Sherlock didn’t speak again, and Dion thought the slave had gone to sleep, seeing he was injured and all, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep as well.

“Did you read the poem I gave you?” Sherlock suddenly said, startling Dion.

“I didn’t have the time, sorry,” he apologised. “Why?”

He felt Sherlock hesitate. “I,” he cleared his throat, “I was, just, thinking about it, right now.” Sherlock’s voice was trembling, with emotion or fear, Dion couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Recite it for me?”

Sherlock took a deep, wavering breath, and started.

“ _Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus, / rumoresque senum severiorum / omnes unius aestimemus assis. / Soles occidere et redire possunt: / nobis cum semel occidit brevis lux, / nox est perpetua una dormienda_.”

Here Sherlock paused, and waited a moment before continuing, taking in slow, calming breaths. Dion envied him; he couldn’t breathe if he tried.

“ _Da mi basia mille, deinde centum, / dein mille altera, dein secunda centum, / deinde usque altera mille, deinde centum, / Dein, cum milia multa fecerimus, / conturbabimus illa, ne sciamus, / aut ne quis malus invidere possit, / cum tantum sciat esse basiorum._ 3”

As he recited the poem, Sherlock had leaned closer, apparently mesmerised by his own words as Dion was. Sherlock’s voice was low, a quiet rumbling, and now Dion recognised the tremor in it for what it was: emotion. Dion’s heart was hammering against his ribcage, his breathing coming out slowly. He didn’t dare make a noise, break that spell that was surrounding him and the slave. There was a tightness in his chest that he couldn’t explain, his stomach somersaulting madly, his face growing warmer. He could feel Sherlock’s hot, humid breath against his cheek, and he shivered. Dion’s lips were drawn like amber4 to the slave’s. Resisting was impossible, and he didn’t try. He had wanted to kiss those lips for so long.

When his lips ghosted over Sherlock’s, the slave gasped. Dion stopped. “Okay?” He questioned, softly, his voice barely audible in the quiet room. Sherlock did not answer, but brushed his lips against Dion’s.

A beautiful, magical feeling of _elation_ bloomed in Dion’s body from that tiny point of contact. It was everything.

And still not enough.

Dion pressed his lips harder against Sherlock’s, kissing him more deeply. His tongue traced the outline of the slave’s plump, gorgeous lips, and Sherlock parted them, emitting a soft moan.

Dion couldn’t believe this was really happening. He felt like he was living a very vivid dream, and all was enveloped in a oneiric haze. It was too good to be true.  

Sherlock reciting him a love poem about kissing after telling Dion that _he_ had made him think about it. Sherlock, kissing Dion with intensity and messy inexperience, his slim body trembling with emotion. Sherlock, allowing Dion to divest him of his _tunica_ , gasping and writhing beneath him as Dion kissed his whole body, barely visible in the dim moonlight. Sherlock, tentatively reaching forward to bare Dion’s skin as well, his fingers so tentative and insecure that Dion had to help him. Sherlock, covering his manhood with his hands in shame, Dion kissing his cheek and murmuring how beautiful Sherlock was against his skin. Sherlock, spurting between them mere moments after Dion had touched him, leaving Dion breathless, hypnotised by the noise that Sherlock had made.  Sherlock, turned on his belly, letting Dion slide his spit-slicked erection between his lovely, white thighs, reaching behind to kiss Dion as he canted his hips. Dion, finding his release in a white wave of pleasure, gasping Sherlock’s name against his scapula.

 _Yes, it must be a dream_ , Dion thought, before _Somnus_ 5 came and claimed him.

And yet, when he opened his eyes a few hours later, he found Sherlock, gloriously naked beside him, his body lit by the grey light of the sunrise. Dion smiled, thanking the gods, and went back to sleep, happier than he had been in a very long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Aristaeus is a minor god in Greek mythology, and was considered the inventor of many arts, among which bee-keeping. His myth is narrated in the fourth book of the Georgics, by Virgil. Basically Aristaeus was hexed by the gods, and his bees started dying. He therefore offered an ox to the gods, and from its corpse, a swarm of bees arose.  
> 2\. _Animus_ : soul, mind, spirit  
> 3\. The poem Sherlock recites is one of my favourite poems _ever_ , I literally know it by heart both in Latin and Italian, but I took the English translation from [this site](http://www.negenborn.net/catullus/text2/e5.htm). The poem is Catullus' carmen 5, here's the translation (I put // when Sherlock pauses so you can follow the Latin part as well):  
> " _Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love, / and let us judge all the rumours of the old men / to be worth just one penny! / The suns are able to fall and rise: / When that brief light has fallen for us, / we must sleep a never ending night. // Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred, / then another thousand, then a second hundred, / then yet another thousand more, then another hundred. / Then, when we have made many thousands, / we will mix them all up so that we don't know, / and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out / how many kisses we have shared._ "  
> 4\. Greeks had already discovered that amber, when rubbed, had electric properties that caused attraction.  
> 5\. _Somnus_ was the Roman equivalent to Hypnos (Ὕπνος), the god of sleep. _Somnus_ , as a noun, also means "sleep", simply. 
> 
> The boys are finally together! Leave a comment to let me know what you think of this chapter! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH MY GOD IDK WHY I AM SO SLOW WITH THIS FIC I AM TERRIBLY SORRY HERE *throws chapter at you* ENJOY LOVELIES I'M SORRY

When Dion woke up the next morning, he found Sherlock asleep next to him, naked.

It was the best awakening in Dion’s life. His hand wandered over his personal slave’s body with a lingering touch, that had the power to wake him up.

“Dion,” Sherlock complained, hiding his face in the pillows. Dion laughed softly, bending down to kiss his hair, so overwhelmed by affection it was almost too much.

Dion got up and stretched. It was already the fifth hour1, so Dion decided to have breakfast and head t _thermae_ now, rather than at the eighth hour, like he usually did.

He shook Sherlock awake. “Sherlock, hey love, wake up. We’re going to the _thermae_.”

Sherlock cracked one eyelid open, and stared at Dion with his impossible eyes. “So early?”

Dion smiled, “It’s already the fifth hour.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, and the boy jumped out of bed. “ _Mehercules_ , I have all my chores to attend to, I’m gonna get whipped, shit.”

Dion caught his wrist. “You’re my personal slave now,” He said calmly, “And you’ll do as I say. And I say, that you’re gonna pray the gods with me, have breakfast with me and come to the _thermae_ with me.”

Sherlock stopped in his track, then smiled nervously at Dion. “You sure?”

Dion grinned at him and reached up on his tiptoes to kiss Sherlock’s lips.

“Yeah.”

°°°

Dion and Sherlock entered the _atrium_ of the _thermae_ at the seventh hour. Sherlock helped Dion undress in the _apodyterium_ , giving his toga to the _capsarii_ , the slaves in charge of folding the clothes. Then Dion eased himself into the _frigidarium_ , the coldest bath. Sherlock watched him with and amused smile as Dion shivered and tried to bathe himself as fast as possible, to then run out of the _frigidarium_ and into the next room, the _tepidarium_. In there, two _unctores_ offered to anoint him, but Dion refused, asking it was Sherlock to do it.

Dion couldn’t help but shiver under Sherlock’s expert hands, running all over his body with swift, soft movements.

It was both relaxing and incredibly arousing.

Finally warmed up and anointed, Dion walked into the next room, the _caldarium_ , and into the hot boiling water of the _calida piscina_.

Finally bathed and relaxed, Dion exited the _piscina_ and walked up to Sherlock. The slave has already a _strigil_ in his hands, and uses it to remove the last dirt on Dion’s naked body.  2

This done, Dion put his toga back on, and then they headed to the library inside the _thermae_.

There Sherlock spent two full hours, reading books out loud for Dion, as the man listened to him intently. After a while, a small crowd gathered around them, all listening to Sherlock read with his perfect Greek accent and explain Philosophy with his clear explanations.

When he finished, the small crowd approached Dion, asking him if his slave is on sale, if he’s free to go and teach their sons, where Dion bought him.

Dion laughed and answered all their questions.

“No, he’s not on sale.”

“He is busy teaching me, I’ll let you know about your kids.”

“I bought him at the _forum_ , his seller’s name was Claudius.”

It was the tenth hour when they exited the _thermae_. Dion had never been so for the early dinner.

He and Sherlock ran through the streets, laughing madly, the people around them throwing surprised looks in their direction.

That is, until Dion got run over by a young boy. The kid fell to the ground, his golden _bulla_ 3  falling to the ground.

“Who did you still this _bulla_ from?” Sherlock asked, picking the round object up and peering at what was inside it. Dion gaped at him.

How could he accuse a kid he didn’t even know?

The child looked frightened and ran away. Sherlock examined the _bulla_ and then started walking towards the _Subura_ region4, a fairly poor neighbourhood near the centre.

Dion couldn’t refrain his curiosity.

“What are we doing?” He asked, following Sherlock blindly around the city.

“We are going to give this _bulla_ back to their owner.”

Dion shook his head. “That _bulla_ is made of gold, I doubt it comes from the _Subura_.”

Sherlock smiled and turned the golden object around.

“Open it.”

Dion did. Inside were normal _bulla_ amulets, phallic symbols and other small sacred objects.

“Oh, Dion, don’t you see?” Sherlock asked with glee.

Dion shook his head no.

Sherlock sighed dramatically.

“They are made of wood, not gold nor another metal. The amulets are also fairly old, indicating that they come from an old, poor family. But the _bulla_ is golden, thus indicating that this family has recently acquired some wealth. Where do we find people only recently become rich?”

Dion sighed. “The _Subura_.”

When they got to there, they ignored the male and female prostitutes that offered their bodies to them, and headed to the richest houses in the neighbourhood.

They had to knock on two doors only before finding the right door.

A worried-looking mother answered them, and her eyes lit up when she saw the _bulla_.

“My baby is protected again!” She exclaimed, tears in her eyes, ushering them in.

She put the _bulla_ in a cot where an ill-looking child was sleeping restlessly.

“Now he will be fine,” the mother said with conviction.

Dion smiled sadly at her.

He had wanted to me a _medicus_ when he had been a kid, to then abandon this dream to become an _orator_. He had researched at that time, and he knew that a baby so weak and so ill could never survive.

The mother insisted on paying them for their help, and Dion and Sherlock politely refused, before exiting the house.

“That poor child,” Dion murmured outside the villa, resuming to walk beside Sherlock towards the centre of the city.

Sherlock hmm’d and they didn’t speak about the episode again. That is, until three days later.

°°°

Dion was dining with Lavinia and Sherlock when the _epistula_ arrived.

It was from one of the ill child’s mother’s friends, and he was asking their help to retrieve his gold, stolen three days ago. Lavinia asked what on earth it was all about, and Dion and Sherlock told her about the _bulla_ episode.

Lavinia looked impressed, and allowed Dion and Sherlock to go out and investigating.

Three hours later found them jumping from roof to roof, chasing a man holding a bag full of gold.

They finally caught him, and brought the gold back to its owner, who split it with them.

“I still can’t believe you worked out it was the brother just from his shoes,” Dion laughed a tad breathless, as they headed back home.

Sherlock smiled at him and said nothing.

In the dark of the night, Dion reached out to take Sherlock’s hand.

“Listen to the stars,” He murmured, closing his eyes, his face to the sky. Sherlock squeezed his hand.

“There something far more beautiful here on earth,” he said softly. When Dion opened his eyes to look at him, he found Sherlock’s eyes fixed on his.

Dion smiled. “You’re what poets write their poems about.”

Sherlock laughed. “And you’re a soppy fool.”

Dion grinned at him so widely his jaw ached.

He had never thought of that, but he had always had a knack for poetry.

Perhaps he could write something about Sherlock, publish them, become a poet.

Perhaps.

The night was still young though, and he and Sherlock took their time to go back home, hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. _Fifth hour_ : about 11am.  
> 2\. [Apodyterium](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apodyterium)  
>  _Capsarii_ : slaves in charge of undressing the hosts of the thermae.  
> [Frigidarium](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frigidarium)  
> [Tepidarium](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tepidarium)  
>  _Unctores_ : slaves in charge of anoint the hosts of the thermae.  
> [Caldarium](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caldarium)  
>  _Calida piscina_ : warm bath  
> 3\. _[Bulla](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulla_\(amulet\))_  
>  4\. _[Subura](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suburra)_


End file.
